


Past Echoes

by JantoJones



Series: Stand-alone Two (The 2nd 100) [33]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 01:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14202549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Memories are stirred for Illya





	Past Echoes

Illya wrapped his arms around himself, in an attempt to stave off the cold wind, as he staked out the dingy back street. He gave a quiet snort as he realised what he was doing. Illya had come from a place which, in winter, could freeze the breath as it left your body. The temperature of the wind, which was currently blowing around him, would barely raise a comment amongst his countrymen. He couldn’t deny that he was getting soft.

Illya had been hiding in a shadowy corner for almost an hour, waiting for a handoff between two Thrush couriers. His assignment was to waylay the pick-up courier and appropriate whatever it was he had been given. A car had arrived fifteen minutes previously, and the driver seemed to be waiting. Illya hoped that this wasn’t the pick-up man, as it wouldn’t be easy to intercept a car when he himself was on foot. He scanned the street for any other signs of life.

The dirty, debris strewn place had definitely seen better days. There was evidence of long gone stores and businesses, which may once have catered to New York’s elite, but were now boarded up and dilapidated. The whole area had become nothing more than a run-down slum, occupied by some of the poor and underprivileged of the city. There was something about the place which transported Illya’s mind to his childhood. Not the village idyll of his family home, but afterwards, when his family were gone and he had been forced into the city.

Movement from the end of the street dragged Illya’s thoughts back to present, and he watched as a figure dressed in black wended his way towards the car. Anyone who wasn’t looking for it would have easily missed the handover. The second courier didn’t stop moving as he passed by the vehicle. In a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it move, a hand popped out of the driver’s window as the man passed, and disappeared almost immediately. The envelope the walking man had received was shoved directly into his inside breast pocket. Behind him the car roared to life and reversed back down the street.

Pressing himself further into his shadowy corner, Illya drew his special and waited for the courier to draw level him. Stepping out of the darkness, he began to demand the package. Unfortunately, the Thrushie seemed to have been expecting something and kicked Illya’s gun away before he could finish his demand. The Russian instantly launched a counter attack, and punched the man hard. Losing his balance as he did so, he fell onto the courier and the pair grappled for two or three minutes.

Eventually, Illya managed to gain the advantage and knocked the man out cold with a back hand to the temple. He wasted no time in fishing out the envelope. After picking up his gun, Illya headed for the brightly lit main streets, and blended into the crowds. His orders were to go straight back to headquarters, but Illya decided a cup of black coffee was his first priority. Memories had been stirred up and he needed to settle them before going back to work. Finding himself a quiet corner in a busy diner, he thought over the evening’s events. 

The back street hadn’t been the first one he’d had to stake out, but it was the first time one had brought his childhood back to him. Illya knew what had caused it, but had kept it to himself. Even Napoleon was in the dark about it.

The day was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the murders of his mother, grandmother, and sisters. It had been a dark day for the eight-year-old, and one which was the beginning of a life which had led to U.N.C.L.E. The fight with the Thrush courier had only served to remind him of the many street fights he had gotten into in the city. Food had been scarce, and every scrap had to be fought for. Illya had even seen people killed over scraps of meat, and had once stolen some bread while others were battling for it; using his slight frame to squeeze through the grappling people.

Illya was in danger of falling into a pit of self-pity and was glad when his communicator chirruped. Shielding it behind a menu, he answered the call from Napoleon.

“Have you got it yet?” the American asked. “Waverly is getting impatient.”

“I am on my way,” Illya told him. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

Napoleon heard the tone in his partner’s voice, and recognised it as a need to talk about something. He made a mental note to postpone his date with Candace.

“I have an unusually free evening,” he lied. “How about dinner at my place?”

“Perfect,” Illya replied. “I’ll bring the vodka.”


End file.
